i am rushing to be quiet, hurrying to find a moment of silence. i run though there is no real noise around me, only faint, familiar sounds behind the windows and the walls: a lone cat meowing among chirping sparrows, a pair of crows building a nest in one of the most conscientious sights i have ever seen, stoic seagulls perched on chimneys, chimneys expelling no smoke. in this stretch i run my fingers on old routines, and i find feathers on the ground all delicate and white. i look at them—these tokens of a sky we cannot reach—and i wonder what would happen if we cared as much about all the scrapes of skin, strands of hair, and crescent nails we abandon in our wake.